Ad-n Olam has got to be the most underrated prayer in the siddur. For many, it is merely the “tallit-taking-off-song” at the end of the Shabbat morning service. (That’s why here at CBT we urge people not to take off their tallit during Ad-n Olam—kiddush lunch can wait an extra 30 seconds!).
Traditionally, though, Ad-n Olam is seen as a sublime statement about the nature of G-d, and the nature of G-d’s relationship to humanity. Because of its depth and importance, it appears both at the beginning of the weekday service and at the beginning and end of the Shabbat morning service. In many synagogues, it’s customary to use it on Friday night and the evening of Yom Kippur. And in Morocco they would sing it before the bride and groom entered the room for the wedding.
What makes the poem so powerful is the jarring contrast between the transcendent G-d Who is the King of the Universe and the intimate, immanent, G-d Who Guards us when we Sleep. The prayer (which is actually a metered and rhyming poem) begins talking about the eternal G-d who existed before anything was created and will exist after it is gone. G-d transcends time as well, has no parallel or rival, and has endless dominion over all. The language is sublime and regal.
But then suddenly the prayer continues, “And He is my G-d” my protector and guardian, and the language tone shifts to something akin to a lullabye.
This contrast is similar to the statement in the Shma that Ad-nai is El-keinu—“The Lord is our G-d,” at the same time as the Lord is “Echad,” the One and Only Master of everything in the Universe. And similar as well to the routine (but in no way routine!) beginning of most blessings, “Blessed are You Ad-nai” (a second person statement of familiarity), “our G-d, King of the Universe, who….” (a third person statement of formality).
Transcendence and immanence: each are inspiring. Together they are incandescent. Together, they pave the path to heaven.